The Reign of Wei
by CalicoJack3218
Summary: Seven years after the fall of Voldemort, a new threat rises to prominence. The vigilante, Zachariah Marcellus and his mysterious benefactors are the only people who stand between the Wizarding Community and another reign of darkness.


_**Disclaimer:** This story is not canon in any way, shape or form. The characters except for Voldemort are my own invention, but everything here is property of J.K. Rowling and should be treated as such._

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The Reign of Wei

**_Chapter One_**

**i.**

Surely icicles must soon form on the ends of his fingers. The inhabitant of cell six hundred pondered this with the part of his mind he had shielded from the horror, and gazed with sunken eyes at his skeletal hand. No frost gleamed there. Yet it was bitterly cold, and a loathsome wind whipped endlessly through the iron bars.

He leaned against the black, pitted stone. The cold that stalked the prison's corridors was little but a distraction from the cold within him. The inescapable iciness whispered to him, promised him yet another descent into his most unbearable memories, another descent into howling, spirit-shredding sorrow. It mocked him, relentless, as he huddled into his corner. Beyond the cell door, a black shape slipped by, it's breathing a hollow rattle. It paused and the prisoner felt his stomach turn to stone. It stared – it had no eyes, but it stared, he knew! – weighing him, gauging him. Waiting. Waiting for the last of his resolve to slip away.

Without knowing what drove him, the prisoner suddenly launched himself off his wooden pallet and towards the cell door, shrieking. Fury, hot and sickly, flooded through him.

"I'll not give in, you soulless filth! Life-sucking monster! You won't have my soul! You can take my happiness, but you cannot steal my soul!"

The creature did not react, and the man felt his anger seeping away like sand between the fingers, the familiar coldness welling up to replace it. He staggered back from the bars, trod on his discarded blanket, slipped and fell. Clambering back to the pallet, he huddled back into his corner. The creature glided away down the corridor, a darker part of the night around it.

"They will not take me," the man muttered to himself, "They will not take me."

It would not be until the next morning, when a cloudy daylight was forming dingy and dull over the North Sea, that the prisoner of cell six hundred would discover the truth of his words.

**ii.**

"Who?"

It was the first and only word the dry, blue lips managed to say to the figure that stood outside his cell, hands thrust deep into its greatcoat and its face half-hidden by a black scarf. But a human figure, a blessed human figure!

"It doesn't matter." The man turned to the dementor nearby. "Open this door." The dementor did not move. It exuded a dark contempt. The man in the coat calmly took a wand from his inside pocket and levelled it at the creature. "Open the cell. I won't ask again."

The creature glided forward and unlocked the door with scabbed, spindly fingers. Distaste showed on the man's bluff, frostbitten face. The cell door swung open soundlessly, and the dementor moved away, a baleful presence still under the threat of the wand.

"Zachariah," the man said to the cell's occupant, "It is time to go."

The man named Zachariah stood unsteadily and joined him. His jerkin and leggings were grimy and wet. The stranger looked at him with sympathy.

"I have clothes for you, when we are away from here, and your wand. This place has not broken you?" He studied his eyes, frowning. Zachariah shook his head, though in truth he was not sure. Until the man had said it, he had forgotten his own name.

They moved through the prison's narrow corridors with as much speed as Zachariah's wasted legs would allow. Dementors hovered close by in every corner, eager, malicious, seeking a weakness, held at bay only by the wand. Other prisoners crouched in the corners of their cells or cried pitifully as they passed. Some spat insults or tried to snatch at them through the bars with hands bloody from scrabbling at the walls. Some merely screeched and howled. The stranger's round face was pale and drawn now, his eyes restless. As they ascended several flights of steps and emerged into the dreary light of day, he breathed a sigh of relief. Far below, waves hurled themselves against Azkaban's unremitting walls. Zachariah sucked down the crisp sea air, desperate to dispel the musty stench that he had endured for so long.

"It is done," His rescuer said. "We can be away now." He paused. "We are aware that you have the apparating disorder, so we have arranged this portkey." He gestured to a red brick lying on the slick stone, conspicuous against the black. They both crouched alongside it. Darkening clouds scudded overhead and wind snatched at the stranger's scarf. "Ready?"

Zachariah nodded dumbly. They reached out with a finger each. As it touched the rough brick, he felt a yank around his midriff and then he was spinning, over and over, and it was welcome, for with each spin he drew further and further away from that nightmarish place.

He hit the ground hard and it knocked the wind out of him as he rolled over and over. He came to rest against the base of a large oak and lay dazed for a moment. Sunlight, warm and wonderful, filtered down through the greenery and caressed his skin. The air was filled with the smell of forest; of trees and mud and foxgloves and crisp morning air. Insects chirped all around him. He did not move, but let it wash over him.

"I cannot imagine how you feel," The stranger said. He appeared above Zachariah, unwinding his scarf and shrugging off his coat. "There will be time to bask in your freedom later, though. We must get you somewhere safe." He held out his hand. Zachariah was hauled to his feet. He tried to speak words of thanks, but his voice failed him. The other man smiled. "Speak later, when you have slept and eaten."

The walk through the forest was short, passing under the canopy and through banks of ferns and bluebells before they came to a ramshackle old well in a clearing. Moss grew over it and a smaller tree had fallen and snapped its wooden support. The bucket lay forgotten in a patch of stunted grass.

"Precautions," The man explained. He took up the bucket and dropped it into the darkness of the well. Instead of a splash, the whole structure shivered like a heat haze, transforming into a low wooden door that stood alone in the clearing. Zachariah followed the man through it and blinked. He was inside a spacious cabin, sparsely furnished with a fireplace, table, chairs and a bed. The walls were made of stone and were unadorned, and a window looked out into the clearing. The wooden bucket was lying on the ground by the door. The stranger retrieved it and tossed it back outside before moving to a chair and slumping down into it.

"It is no holiday cottage, but it will suffice," He grinned. "They'll not find you here."

"Who won't?"

"Us," The man chuckled, "Or to be more exact, the Ministry."

"You are Ministry?"

"In a manner of speaking. We're the Ministry's Ministry." He smiled apologetically at Zachariah's confused expression. "We are friends, but the rest of the Ministry isn't. I will explain more once you've rested." He stood and offered a large hand. "My name is Oliver Shepherd." Zachariah shook it. "No harm will come to you here; you have my word. Get some sleep, man. You deserve it."

Zachariah moved to the narrow bed. Tiredness he had not noticed until now weighed down his limbs as he discarded the filthy clothes and slipped between the sheets, his white hair tangled and splayed out wildly over the pillow. In a matter of moments he was soundly asleep.

**iii.**

It was night when he awoke. The fire had been lit and orange light flickered and danced over the ceiling. The warmth from it flowed throughout the room. He lay there, organising thoughts that had been scattered and confused by Azkaban. He was Zachariah Marcellus. Once he had been an Auror, but now he was freelance. Illegally freelance. But the Ministry had tolerated him for his usefulness, up until his mistake. He squeezed his eyes closed with the pain of the memory. Maybe he had deserved the time inside.

"Welcome back to the world," Shepherd's voice said, amused. Zacheriah sat up in the bed. Shepherd was seated by the fire.

"Why are you helping me?" Zachariah asked. His throat was dry and painful.

"It's in our interests, and in those of the wizarding community."

"What day is it? What month?"

"It is the twenty-third of April."

Zachariah slumped back against the pillow. He had been in there for three months. Three of a six month sentence.

"I…killed someone. Someone who was not a danger."

"We know. We know also that you were manipulated; given false information. We know your foe-glass was modified. In short, we know you are innocent."

"I am innocent of nothing. I killed an innocent man."

"You are as innocent as any of us in times like these," Shepherd snapped, rising to his feet. "It was an accident. Put aside your guilt. Now is the time to find his real killer. The one who betrayed you."

"Why are you helping me?" Zachariah asked again, more firmly. "A few hours ago I was a wretch in Azkaban. I would likely have died there. I want a proper explanation."

"Merlin's Beard, man, because you're _useful! _ And you know what we are facing. As far as the rest of the Ministry knows, you're a vigilante turned murderer. They can continue to think that. We know better, and we need you." Shepherd crossed the room and dug out a kettle. "Tea?" Zachariah nodded, and he used his wand to first pour water inside and then levitated the kettle to the fire. "We answer only to the Prime Minister and the Minister for Magic. The public doesn't even know we exist. If we were ever exposed, the Ministry would have us arrested as renegades, like you."

"Go on."

"Like you, we protect the country from those who have given themselves to the dark arts. The remnants of Voldemort's reign. The giants. Influxes of dangerous creatures and a dozen other threats." He paused, uncertainty in his eyes. "We have detected the stirrings of something a great deal more frightening than all of those. We are well-trained, but we are few. Your expertise is invaluable."

Zachariah stood, finding himself unsteady. Shepherd watched him.

"I will need time to regain my strength," Zachariah said. "I cannot help you in this state."

"Of course," Shepherd said. He seemed pleased that Zachariah was so compliant. "There will be time, but not much." He hesitated, stalling. "There is a washroom behind that painting, if you want to clean up." He smiled. "It is also our primary escape route – please do not touch the plughole."

Zachariah moved to the painting. It depicted a calm harbour in an evening sunset. The red tendrils of the sinking sun swept out over an almost glass-like sea and little boats bobbed cheerfully by a dark seawall. He watched it. A few fishermen came into view, clambered into a boat and cast off their mooring rope. It puttered off into the distance of the bay.

"What is it you are afraid of, Oliver Shepherd?" Zachariah asked, his eyes still on the painting. There was silence, heavy and still, and then a sigh.

"A man like you will remember the stories of the old Chinese warlords."

"I remember them."

"Not all of them are stories. One of the warlords has survived to this day."

"Who?"

"Kong Li Wei."

Zachariah forgot the painting. Forgot the weariness, the gauntness of his flesh, the aching in his bones. He turned.

"You make inappropriate jokes, Shepherd!"

"If only it were one."

"It is impossible! Wei was destroyed in the War of the Five Daughters in medieval times."

"No. One of his _bodies_ was. Similar to Lord Voldemort seven years ago, Wei discovered a method of transferring his soul between vessels. Indeed, he discovered it _before_ Voldemort, and he does not use horcruxes."

"And you know this only _now?_" Zachariah railed, incredulously.

"We have known for only three days."

Zachariah rubbed a hand through his wild mass of long hair. This was insanity.

"Three days and you already free me from prison? I should be flattered, were I not confused beyond belief."

"The man you were tracking? The dark wizard you thought you had killed when you took Edwin's life? He was one of Wei's servants. We apprehended him and gave him veritaserum. Wei has been at large for centuries, at the centre of a web of servants and slaves that we have only begun to penetrate." Shepherd's face was pale. "We thought we were up against a ring of pure-blood extremists. We didn't expect anything this serious."

Zachariah sat down heavily on one of the chairs. The dark wizard's name had been William Narrowmoor. He had hunted him for close to half a year, seeking who his master was before he brought him down. His patience had been his undoing.

"What did you do with Narrowmoor?" Zachariah asked.

"We killed him." Shepherd's eyes were cold. It made a contrast with his open, friendly features. The kettle began to whistle.

"And he was merely a servant?"

"One of the lesser ones."

"This is madness."

"You are beginning to realise the gravity of the situation, then?"

"Perhaps you are-"

"There is no mistake, Huntsman. The Shacklebolt Group has been watching agents of Wei for two years. We just didn't know it until now."

"Shacklebolt?"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt. Our founder."

Zachariah was silent for a moment, before standing and returning to the painting. The perpetually-setting sun winked on the wave crests. Zachariah touched the mahogany frame. Instantly, part of the stone wall melted away like candle wax. Beyond was a cramped bathroom.

Shepherd turned away to allow the hunter time to relieve himself. When he turned back, however, Zachariah stood naked, calmly washing his pale body at the sink by candlelight. He stared at Shepherd almost challengingly, but the Ministry agent said nothing, just poured a steaming cup of tea and laid it on the table.

"So," Zachariah said, "What am I expected to do to help you?"

"Don't be coy. You know you are the best there is."

Zachariah sighed.

"It's been a long time since I was the best," he said. He was scrubbing at his face, and though the grime came off easily enough, the shadows didn't. His narrow, sharp-edged face was etched with lines and sunken in places. The pale blue eyes seemed uncomfortably distant. _Still back in Azkaban,_ he thought darkly. Scars crisscrossed his wiry frame, stark and ragged in the flickering light.

When he was finished, he wrapped himself with a towel and padded out into the main room. The wall re-materialised behind him. Shepherd was sitting by the fire, holding a thin box. Zachariah crossed to him and held out his hand.

"My wand."

Shepherd opened the box almost reverently and handed the slim length of pine to him. Zachariah rolled it in his fingers, taking comfort from the familiar weight and polished wood.

"You have my thanks for releasing me."

"Don't offer it too quickly," Shepherd smiled sadly, "You either must help us in finding and bringing down Wei, or you will be returned there, obliviated."

"Not much of a choice."

"It's the best we can do."

"How do I know that after we stop him, you won't just do the same?"

Shepherd shrugged his big shoulders and looked into the fire.

"You don't," he said.

"That's comforting."

"But the Ministry will owe you. The Shacklebolt Group will owe you. You'll have your freedom."

"Looks like I'll have to wait and see." He spun his wand in his hand. Shepherd watched it. "Still, let's cross that bridge later, shall we? You have my assistance. But I want to know _everything_ that you do. I don't want to go in blind."

"We can do that."

Zachariah laid his wand on the table and crossed to the fire, wringing out his white hair in fistfuls. The flames sputtered and hissed with the droplets.

"Where do we start?" He asked. "What did you learn from Narrowmoor?"

"Precious little," Shepherd frowned. "My colleague, Francis Middleton, will be here in an hour. He is better informed."

"How many of you are there?"

"Twenty-four. Sixteen men, eight women. And now you, temporarily, making it twenty-five."

"That's a small army to save the world with."

Shepherd said nothing. Zachariah moved to the pile of fresh clothes beside the bed and dressed. Suddenly, the wooden bucket sailed through the solid wood of the door and clattered to the floor, making both men jump. It rolled up against a chair leg. Following after it from the dark forest outside came a short, rotund man in pale green robes. He had a sparse sprinkling of sandy hair. He looked distracted.

"Francis," Shepherd stood, crossing the room. The stout man only seemed to notice him as he neared him, and blinked rapidly. "Francis, what is the matter? You look exhausted."

"Yes…yes, I'm alright, Oliver. Just a spot of bother trying to stay out of harm's way. Apparating so often in a day gives me a headache." He gave a weak smile, then blinked and peered around Shepherd at Zachariah. "Ah, our new guest! How do you feel after your stay in the north?"

"As expected," Zachariah replied cautiously. Slowly, he was edging towards the table where his wand lay. "The hospitality leaves a lot to be desired."

The little man gave a high-pitched laugh, tense and uncertain. Shepherd frowned.

"Have you told the others of Mr. Marcellus' rescue yet, Oliver?" Middleton asked.

"No, sir. You asked me not to, until you had spoken with him."

"Ah, yes, indeed I did, indeed I did. Good, good." He frowned, then blinked rapidly again, squinting at Zachariah. At the table, the hunter had his right hand on top of his wand.

"Shepherd," Zachariah said, quietly. Shepherd turned to look at him, puzzled. Zachariah did not take his eyes off Middleton. "Move away. He's under the Imperius. I can see the signs."

"What? That's impossible!" Shepherd said, but he moved back from the man nonetheless, his hand slipping inside his robes.

"What is this? This is preposterous!" Middleton was spluttering, looking between Shepherd and Zachariah. "How could you possibly think…come now, this is foolish. We have important things to discuss."

Zachariah and Shepherd did not move. Shepherd's want was levelled at Middleton as well.

"Francis," He said to the plump man, "It's just a precaution. You're not yourself. We can bring Maria here. She can perform occlumency; show us that you aren't controlled by the enemy."

"Absolutely not!" Middleton scowled, "I'll not have her traipsing about my mind, because some…some paranoid vigilante chooses to accuse me!" A vein was pulsing in his temple. _Escalating stress,_ thought Zachariah, _He's fighting the curse. Always the same pattern._

Without warning, Middleton plunged his hand into his robes, snatching for his wand. He aimed it at Zachariah.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

The jet of green light surged across the room, but the hunter was already down and rolling. As the blast shattered the stone of the wall and bathed the room in sickly green light, Shepherd and Zachariah cast their spells at the same time.

"_Stupify!" _

The dazzling twin jets of red light took Middleton in the face, sending him sprawling backwards against the door with a loud crash. He slid down it, unconscious. Zachariah was already heading for the painting of the harbour. Shepherd stood staring in confusion at his motionless colleague.

"They'll be right behind him," Zachariah said urgently, "We don't want to be here when they arrive."

"We can't just leave him!"

"We have no choice. Either we leave now, or we all die. If we can, we'll come back for him."

"Huntsman…"

"Did you want my help, or not?" Zachariah snapped. Through the window he saw cloaked shapes running across the moonlit clearing and his heart went into his mouth. "We have to leave _now!"_

Shepherd broke off from staring at Middleton and hurried across the room as the wall to the bathroom was already disappearing. The two men crowded into the narrow space just as the first wizard blew the door off its hinges, sending Middleton's unconscious form tumbling across the room. The man was dressed in a crimson robe, his face hidden by a black hood. Zachariah hit him with a killing curse to the chest as Shepherd fumbled frantically with the sink. Another wizard shoved inside and a bolt of green light sizzled past them both and shattered the toilet cistern with a splintering crash. Zachariah ducked a second spell, spinning and casting at the same time. His curse sent the attacker diving for cover.

"Could we hurry, please?" He asked, his voice strained, but before he had finished speaking, Shepherd had twisted the plughole sideways. There was a gut-wrenching lurch and Zachariah stumbled, then he and Shepherd were falling, spiralling down through utter blackness. He tried to cry out, but something was compressing him, blocking his throat. He choked, clawing at the blackness. Bright colours danced before his eyes. Just as he thought he could hold his breath no longer, the world slammed back into existence; a blur of colour and light as he hit a carpeted floor hard. Shepherd thumped down beside him and rolled, gasping.

Hands grabbed at him and he fought them, his hair blinding him, gulping lungfuls of air, but the hands withdrew and he realised they were not enemies. He let them pull him to his feet and staggered, rounding on Shepherd.

"What…the hell was that?" He demanded hoarsely, massaging his windpipe, "How did they get at Middleton?"

Shepherd's bluff face too looked pained, the eyes wide.

"The spell…it's a kind of forced apparation," he said breathlessly, "Even works on those who can't apparate themselves. Experimental, never used outside of Shacklebolt business." He shook his head. "I don't know how Francis was compromised. It should be impossible – we never break our precautionary measures and everyone is trained against the Imperius."

The figures around them were moving forward now, stricken. A man with an enormous drooping red moustache and deep-set eyes took Shepherd by the arm.

"They've got Francis?" His hand tightened on Shepherd's arm. "What happened? Tell me!"

Shepherd related the story, from Azkaban to the escape from the forest cottage. As he talked, Zachariah took in the other grim faces. There were two women there and three men. They eyed him uneasily, and he looked back with interest. The protectors of Britain were so ordinary as to be extraordinary, and the weight of their responsibility could be seen in the drawn, tired faces. They sat or stood around in an irregular circle, like parts of the room.

The chamber was strange in itself in that it had no doors or windows, only a long, polished table with intricately carved legs, several spindly chairs and a myriad collection of dull, patterned rugs before a pair of fireplaces. The fireplaces were flanked by carved effigies of lions. Books and maps lay about; on the table and chairs, or laying open on the rugs.

"Where is this?" Zachariah asked abruptly. The man with the sunken eyes and Shepherd turned from their conversation to look at him.

"This is our former prisoner," Shepherd said to his apparent superior weakly. "And our newest ally."

The man came forward, frowning. He stuck out a massive, scarred hand. Zachariah took it. The man had hazel eyes buried in a mass of scar tissue and browned skin, and wore robes of deep purple. The way they fell about his muscular outline suggested a raw power, expertly reigned-in and controlled. Experience and confidence radiated from him in waves.

"I am Monkrose, as close as we have to a leader. Relieved to have you on board," He said with a curt nod. His voice was gruff and sounded like it was from somewhere deep in Yorkshire. As he turned to face the other gathered witches and wizards, Zachariah saw that his hair was tied into a long red braid down his back.

"We have a serious problem, and less time to deal with it than I would like," He said. "Somehow, they got close enough to Francis to put him under the Imperius. More worrying, they knew who he was. Assuming they've tortured him – and I think we can assume correctly – they will soon know how to access some of our safehouses, including this one. Luckily, they will know little more, as I had already deemed Francis to be our most likely security leak." There were some gasps at that, but the man ignored them, tugging at his moustache. "There are still four places they will not know about; we will move our operation to one of those tonight. They will not know anything beyond our efforts to track the individuals connected to Wei. But, we can expect that those individuals will either disappear or their guard will be increased as to make them untouchable."

"Francis is probably dead by now," Shepherd said glumly.

"Not yet," Monkrose replied, "They'll want to use him as bait." He turned to the others, "Now then, be about your duties. We're moving to the Caerphilly haven. Mildred, leave last and cut this room from the Floo network – it's no use to us now."

The witches and wizards went about collecting the books around the room as Monkrose's hard stare fell on Zachariah again. The hunter met it, unafraid but curiously respectful.

"As for you," The Shacklebolt leader said thoughtfully.

"As for me," Zachariah agreed.

"We're short on time. Have you recovered enough to be of use right now?"

"I'm fine." In truth, he felt weak as a kitten, but now was not the time to admit that.

"Good." Monkrose led him to the yellowed, curled map on the table. It was lit by two candles and showed the whole of Britain and the north-west coast of France, marked with pins of different colours. There were many blue pins clustered in London, and – if they meant what Zachariah thought they meant – a disconcerting amount of red pins scattered across the country. Many more than the blue ones. Monkrose gave him a considering look. "That's right," he said. "We're outnumbered."

"I was never much of a gambler."

"Me neither. So we won't wait. They think they now have us on the run – which is true, to a certain extent. What they do not expect is an attack. Here." The man prodded a thick finger down onto the parchment. Zachariah looked at the flowing script next to it, seeing a village name. Sharpstone. A red pin was stuck in the middle of the writing. "We think a dark wizard who reports directly to Wei is in temporary residence here. Reports of muggle deaths and disappearances in that village have increased dramatically in just a month." He met Zachariah's eyes again. "Two farmers were reported missing last week. The muggle authorities have no idea where they went. We know they were killed by lethifolds."

Despite himself, the hunter shuddered. He didn't know which frightened him more; lethifolds or dementors.

"Worse, a local muggle newspaper ran a story about a young woman being 'set upon by a pale, skeletal creature."

"Inferi," Shepherd whispered fearfully. Monkrose grimaced and his eyes met Zachariah's.

"That wizard has information essential to our defeating Kong Li Wei. Will you get it out of him? I'll send two of my people with you."

"I can do that," Zachariah said. The candlelight made his face look even more sunken than it was. "Do you want me to bring him in?"

"No. Do what you have to do to find out what he knows, then kill him. There's no room for games or moral uncertainty here, Huntsman."

"What did he do?"

"What?" Monkrose's face was expressionless.

"The wizard. What did he do? If I am to kill him, I need to know why. I kill, but never without reason. Give me a reason."

Monkrose's eyes did not flicker. "His name is Ulysses Hedger. He surfaced after Voldemort's second downfall. He's a pure-blood fanatic and a fan of hands-on torture. He has personally burned to death thirty-four muggles and eleven witches and wizards. Is that enough for you?"

"More than."

"Good. First we will go to Caerphilly in Wales and make sure we've got a way to get you out of there. I also want you to meet an old friend of mine." He laid a hand on Zachariah's slim shoulder, almost friendly, but Zachariah was not deceived. Monkrose was as cold and relentless as winter. "You have travelled the Floo before, yes? I know you cannot apparate-"

"Not beyond surprise journeys, no," Zachariah shot a look at Shepherd, who shrugged. "And yes, I know how to use it. I'm not a squib, Monkrose."

"I wasn't suggesting it," the Shacklebolt leader was genuinely shocked. He took a handful of powder from his robes and tossed it into the flames of the fireplace. Instantly, they shot up, green and dazzling. "State the location as Caerphilly Castle Ruined Tower."

Zachariah stepped into the fire, turning to face the grim, wavering forms beyond it. He hesitated a beat and then spoke the name aloud. Then he was spinning, over and over, hurtling past innumerable fireplaces. He felt nauseous and closed his eyes.

As he spun on through the British night, Zachariah Marcellus thought darkly of whom he and the Shacklebolt Group were up against and how few they were to stand against such a tide. Remembering how many red pins he had seen stuck into the parchment, he wondered bitterly whether he would have been better off still languishing in cell six hundred.


End file.
